Second Chance

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Rising Sun

IJS Yamato

Nr Japan

7^th September, 1940

Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, Commander-In-Chief of the Japanese Combined Fleet, stared at the map on the wall with a deep sense of despair. It was against bushido, against every manner in which Yamamoto had been brought up, to scream, or to show emotion. He wanted to scream, he wanted to curse uncaring fate, but what good would it have done? Japan’s fate was set… and even an Admiral could do nothing.

He hadn’t believed the Germans when they’d told him of the future Britain. The news about the destruction of the German and Italian fleets had been alarming, but, frankly, neither of them were good seamen. Indeed, the reports suggested sabotage, rather than mythical missiles from far beyond the German range. Had Yamamoto himself not claimed credit for a similar plan, in the event of the American fleet daring to challenge the shinning sword of kido bunto? Surely the Germans were telling lies to excuse their own failures.

And then the laptop had arrived, directly through the shocking allies of the Germans, the Soviets, and then the Ambassador had arrived. He examined the compact machine and its damning files, and then turned his attention to the transcript. Ambassador Yurina Sako had been convincing proof that something had gone very wrong in history; a woman’s place was to support her husband, not to put on airs and graces. Yamamoto’s own wife was a tower of strength to him and to their children, but he would never have dreamed of trusting her with such an important position.

The secret police, the dreaded Kenphei, had insisted on having a chance to interrogate Yurina properly. Yamamoto, already reeling from the impact of the books with her – the stupid unpatriotic bitch hadn’t even brought any useful technological data – had countermanded the order, which had provoked yet another assassination attempt. His moderate approach to the issue of relations with America, specifically over the issue of declaring war over the new – and apparently not in the history books – embargos and the growing disgraceful treatment of Japanese-ethic citizens in America and Australia.

Of course, such people were little better than traitors, fleeing their homeland for an enemy state, but they were still Japanese. Dozens of them had opened new channels of communication with the Japanese agents where they lived, supplying the Japanese with new information. Yamamoto shrugged; did it matter what the Japanese knew of the convulsions occupying the attentions of America?

He returned his attention to the history book, A Just and Necessary War. Its author took a very pro-American viewpoint, attacking the Japanese at every opportunity – surely even the army would not put Americans though a thousand mile march of death – but there was too much in the tome for Yamamoto to dismiss it out of hand. Of particular interest was the conclusion, written in 2010.

Yamamoto slammed the book closed. Reading about his own death was grotesquely fascinating, even as the implications rolled out through his mind. The report from Himmler’s oracle, including the little detail that Japanese navy codes could be read by the Americans, washed through his mind. The final implication was clear; Japan could not – dared not – go to war against the Western Powers.

Unfortunately, the Japanese War Cabinet had ordered precisely that.

The meeting had been brutal. The ‘doves,’ the faction that wanted to avoid a war, were weakening. The Japanese had been subjected to intolerable provocation over the last month, from embargos on trade goods to attacks on its citizens. No Japanese vessel was allowed within one hundred miles of Pearl Harbour, and Japanese ships visiting the Philippines and Australia were thoroughly and humiliatingly searched. Already, the Japanese economy was in serious trouble; the constant war with China and the need to get the Navy reorganised was draining resources.

The ‘hawks,’ on the other hand, were growing stronger, swaying the Emperor to their views. Even if the Japanese conceded the American demands – which would be difficult as the Americans themselves weren’t certain what they wanted the Japanese to do – the Americans had offered no guarantee of resuming trade. Indeed, they claimed, the American President might find it hard to resume trade, given that the election in under three weeks would determine if he would serve again. If he won, he might be more flexible, but the history documents meditated against it; Roosevelt had clearly prepared to fight a war with Japan.

Yamamoto had attempted to convince Premier Konoe Fumimaro that the war was suicide. “I have currently six fleet carriers and I may have the next two in service by early next year,” he’d said. “I may be able to defeat the Americans in a stand-up battle, in fact I am certain that we can do that, but they will rebuild and rebuild again until they grind us down.”

He quoted himself; the irony was not lost on him. “If I am told to fight,” he said, “I shall run wild for the first six months… but I have utterly no confidence for the second or third year. By then, the British will have moved more of their superweapons into the Pacific, and the Americans will have built the ships to carry them. At that point… the matter will be decided.”

He’d meant that Japan would lose. The War Cabinet hadn’t been convinced, and he had to admit that all the options were bad. Strike north, against the USSR, and be defeated. Strike west, into China, and use up scarce resources fighting a slippery foe. Strike east, or south, and be crushed by the monstrous American industry, or British superweapons.

And, if they surrendered, if they begged for mercy, Japan’s attempt to prove that yellow men were as good as white men would be doomed forever. How much more would they have to give up, if they surrendered now, if they proved that squeezing Japan’s lifeline of vital resources would force them to change their behaviour? Yamamoto thought of the new brigades, dispatched to Formosa and half a dozen other little islands, and shuddered. The Chinese would never have a chance to revolt against the Japanese in the new future.

Yamamoto felt his hand gently. He’d lost two fingers and it still troubled him, but in that war Japan had taken on a vastly superior foe and won. The precedent had been discussed openly by the hawks; Japanese military skill would defeat the West, particularly with the offers from Germany, who had taught the Army its trade. Other information had been helpful; the future ships were powerful, but they were also weak; a single well-placed bomb or torpedo could destroy one when its defences were swarmed. The future Britain had only two observed carriers – although some British prisoners had spoken of three carriers – and apparently a limited number of freighters. They had some of the older Britain’s ships, but only a handful – and history said that they were doomed to be sunk anyway.

The genesis of an idea began to swarm through Yamamoto’s mind, even as he listened to Ambassador Yurina Sako. The woman was shamefully dressed, in a low-cut blouse and skirt that showed off her legs to best advantage. Some of the hawks were eyeing her, perhaps wondering what she would be like in the bedchamber, and others had already dismissed her as a whore.

“This war is folly,” she said, and the men glared at her. Even the Crown Prince seemed astonished; people didn’t speak like that to the Japanese Cabinet. “We lost the war and suffered the impact of two nuclear weapons on our soil, and now…”

“And now you had the opportunity to bring us the information on how to win the war, and didn’t,” an Army officer said. The Army Minister didn’t react; the surest sign that he agreed with his subordinate. “You have failed in your duty to His Majesty and…”

“I’m trying to save you from repeating a mistake,” Yurina snapped. “The Emperor doesn’t even understand what’s happening and…”

There was uproar. Three of the army officers reached for their swords, preparing to cut Yurina down for imprudence. No one questioned the Emperor; at least where anyone else could hear. Yamamoto used all of his prestige to hold them back, warning them that she would be needed, before ordering one of his subordinates to take Yurina out of the room and to the Yamato. The battleship would be the only safe place for her.

After the confusion had died down, the vote for war had passed by a wide margin. Japan had no other choice, they reasoned, and the only hope was to seize the resources of the Dutch East Indies before any new superweapons could arrive. Yamamoto headed back to his ship and summoned Minoru Genda. They had a war to plan.

Minoru Genda smiled cheerfully as he picked up the reports that his commanding officer had sent him. Ten minutes later, he was no longer smiling. His career as one of the newest strategists of the Japanese Navy was in danger; the new threat was completely unprecedented. If the reports from Germany were true, ships in ‘secured’ harbours were anything, but safe. Japan, like Britain, depended on her navy far more than Germany; Germany could survive without her navy, Japan could not. Without her trading fleet, Japan was doomed.

“We cannot go to war against America,” Genda said finally. Yamamoto relaxed slightly; had he suspected that Genda, who’d planned a number of strikes against the Americans, would insist on such a strike? “With this… information, we know that it would be suicide.”

“I agree with your conclusions,” Yamamoto said finally, after a pause, just long enough to make Genda uncomfortable. “Carry on.”

Genda took a breath. “We also cannot go to war against the Russians,” he said, gathering his confidence. Yamamoto wasn’t like other admirals; Yamamoto listened. “Even if we won, a doubtful proposition…”

Yamamoto nodded; the Army had tried hard to cover up the disaster at Nomonhan, but the future history books revealed it in all its gruesome glory. Nearly ten thousand Japanese dead, wounded or imprisoned in Gulags.

“Even if we won, we would gain nothing, but empty territory. According to this summery of the war, the Germans would have attacked the Soviets in the front, but we can no longer count on that happening. Waging war against the Soviets would lead to our defeat; I’m certain of it.”

“And,” Yamamoto purred, “what do you propose?”

Genda fought hard to keep any trace of his feelings from his face. He understood Yamamoto’s concerns, but it had only been ten minutes since he had started to read. “We need the resources of the south,” he said. “At the moment, the cornerstone of the British Empire is gone, replaced by this… otherworldly nation that apparently abandoned the Empire. Will they leap to the defence of their former dominions? Without their support, neither India nor Australia can hope to withstand us laying claim to the Dutch East Indies, or the handful of French territory in Tahiti. Indeed, we could take Australia and have unlimited living room and resources for a very long time indeed, enough, perhaps, to match the Americans.

“But what if they do intervene?” He continued. “How much can they ship here quickly? They are ten thousand miles away; their ships will have to pass though hostile waters to reach us. Should they intervene, we would have a good chance of securing footholds on Australia, as well as the main targets of Singapore, Malaya, Burma and even India itself. Will the Raj resist the knock we will give it?”

He smiled. “They have wonder-weapons,” he said. “The Germans have already detailed ways of circumventing their effectiveness; they have low numbers and a reluctance to cause civilian casualties. How many of their planes can operate without preparation first; how many missiles can they carry on each ship? If we have to, we can force them to expand their weapons and then close in to finish them off.”

Yamamoto was silent for a long moment, studying the map. “It is a remarkable plan,” he said finally. “The one flaw I see is that the Americans will probably supply the British with materials.”

“Irrelevant,” Genda said. “The Americans cannot supply weapons to non-existent troops. They will also have to worry about their colonies in the Philippines; we won’t go after them, but they don’t know that.”

“They could slice us in half if they mounted an attack from the Philippines,” Yamamoto said softly. “Still, they will be reluctant to start a fight, and we will be careful to avoid… provoking them. We will not issue further protests over the treatment of Japanese in America; we will even avoid interdicting their shipping.” He smiled. “I think that this plan offers us the last best chance for victory.”

Genda bowed. “I am pleased that you consider my humble words worth listening to,” he said.

Yamamoto picked up the laptop, the one that Ambassador Yurina had brought with her, along with an advanced power converter. “You will take this,” he said, passing over the laptop and the instruction manual. “Go back to the office onshore and start drawing up a deployment plan for implementing the strike plan at the soonest possible date. Once you have done so, have it copied and sent to me by hand-courier, not be radio, understand?”

Genda bowed. “In addition, I want you to go through the files and highlight anything, no matter the ramifications, that might affect our ability to fight the war,” Yamamoto continued thoughtfully. “Brave personnel, incompetent personnel, any new tactics… anything that might be helpful. You will discuss that with no one, but myself. Understand?”

“Hai,” Genda said, bowed again, and took his leave. Despite the sudden shock of knowing the future, there was something about the chance to change the course of history that appealed to him. He loved challenges by nature, and changing history was the greatest challenge of all.

Ambassador Yurina Sako felt like crying, but she refused to cry, summoning up all the determination of thirty-seven years in the diplomatic service to hold back the tears. She rubbed the side of her body, sore where one of the barbarians had hit her, and winced; she knew now that she’d made a mistake.

All of her life, she’d watched as Japan had had to eat humble pie for its actions, seventy-five years ago. She hadn’t been born in the war years, like some of the British; she’d been born into a world where Japan was starting to chafe at some of the restrictions placed upon it following the humiliating defeat of 1945. Slowly, steadily, the Japanese were starting to question the American view of the war – Yurina herself had questioned it.

She understood now. She hadn’t expected to be received with any eagerness – she was a woman in an era where Japanese women had no public role – but to have been dismissed so calivrly had been a shock. These Japanese didn’t know, or didn’t care, about the future; one of them was even talking about deploying biological weapons against the Chinese, wiping them out before they became a problem. After all, Yurina’s own history notes had included details of a successful germ warfare attack in 2009 – on Japan.

She felt a sense of gratitude to the little Admiral, the man who many Japanese still revered. He was both a war hero, and a man who’d opposed the war with America. She knew that if he hadn’t intervened she would have been murdered outright, or raped and then murdered. She cursed her decision to wear the clothes she had; she’d noticed some of the men looking at her with lust in their eyes.

They deserved what they got, Yurina thought, and shuddered. The Japanese would discover how badly their leadership had misjudged the situation in 1945, but now, with her knowledge of the future, they might well escape the war – and learn nothing from it. She knew little of the effects on the United States, but if Roosevelt lost the war for re-election, would his successor still attempt to fight the war?

There was a knock on the door. Yurina froze; she half-expected it to be one of the guards, coming to have a little fun with her. “Come in,” she called, and the door opened. Yamamoto stepped though.

“I apologise for disturbing you,” he said, as calmly as he could. “I trust that your accommodations are acceptable?”

Yurina laughed. “Admiral, I know the future,” she said. “You and yours will lead Japan on the path to ruin. What is there to be happy about?”

Yamamoto took a seat on the bed. She took the chair. Yamamoto’s eyes didn’t follow her legs; he seemed to be looking into her very soul. “The War Cabinet has voted to attack the British Empire,” he said finally.

Yurina laughed again, bitterly. “And so it begins,” she said. “This war will destroy Japan.”

“I have my orders,” Yamamoto said. “Orders have to be obeyed.”

“Obeying them will lead to Japan’s destruction,” Yurina said. She giggled, faintly aware of her strange behaviour. “So, are you going to open the attack on Pearl Harbour again, or are you going to do something else equally stupid?”

Yamamoto ignored her sally. “With your help, we could defeat them,” he said. “Ambassador” – she blinked as he granted her the title she’d earned – “will the British assist their empire?”

“I have no idea,” Yurina said. “They might just want to be rid of it. However, they will want to resist you; the militarists who have taken control of Japan.”

Yamamoto nodded. “Then its war to the knife,” he said, and left the room. Yurina felt puzzled; if she hadn’t known better, she would have said that he’d fled the room.